


Big Red - Cinnamon Gum Burns My Mouth

by inthemouthofthewolf



Category: Original Work, Rotkäppchen | Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Adult Content, Baltimore, Children's Stories, Dreams, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, I was just dicking around, M/M, Murder, Reagan Sucks, Stalking, Time Loop, Timey-Wimey, Werewolves, Wolves, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthemouthofthewolf/pseuds/inthemouthofthewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for a fun little writing game with my friend with specific fun parameters. it was fun.<br/>I just mess around with words. I dunno. I let them be ripped out of me and it's quite lovely. He's still sitting on his laptop writing up an outline or something. probably. -snerk-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Red - Cinnamon Gum Burns My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Parameters:::  
> Little Red Riding Hood Based
> 
> 1\. To some degree there must feature:::  
> an axe  
> a red cloak/hoodie/jacket of some type  
> a broken window  
> some form of propaganda  
> a game designed for children  
> something sinister that seems like what it is not.
> 
> These inclusivity-related parameters are not mutually exclusive. IE: one of the items given as a must-include may also simultaneously fulfill another criteria
> 
> 2\. To some degree there will be the intent of igniting at least quasi-sexual arousal within the intended reader
> 
> 3\. Must be written within one hour and twenty minutes time. If not completed by then, post what you've got anyway. Penalties in the form of further parameters by request of intended reader shall be imposed.
> 
>  
> 
> I was within time limit btw.

Big Red – Cinnamon Gum Burns Your Mouth  
It hurts so good I can't stop

The fumes were overpowering. “Fumes” theoretically was the wrong word, but here it certainly applied. His quarry was just about bathed in body-spray in the fashion of all young men, and besides that and the bright red hoodie with the obnoxious star pattern, Wolf could have followed his quarry from about a kilometer away almost obscenely easily. He was sauntering after him, not quite stalking, several meters behind, as his mark crossed from the busy to the desolate and destitute part of the city, where it seemed like everyone lived. If Wolf tried hard enough to calm the dizzying aerosol type pain in his nose, he could recognize the brand-- that shit that you could get cheap at Rite-Aid or Walgreens-- that damn Axe-- Chocolate.

It didn't smell anything like chocolate.  
It was incomprehensibly vile.  
Still, the commercial was all about a dude who girls kept taking giant bites out of. That was something the Wolf could definitely identify with.  
This part of the city sucked balls for meth.  
Between the broken windows, the bullet-holes, and old grimy dried-up puddles of you-don't-want-to-know-what in every alley and every gutter, there were time-warped posters from rock shows in the 1970s-- covered up with mangled paranoia from the 1940s-- loose lips sink ships-- in those times this part of the city was quite happening. Quite nice, rather.  
Things still happened hear, but nobody wanted to here about them. Everyone wanted to be far away but kept getting drawn back-- only to turn and try to burst back out through the arms of false friends.  
Red Rover Red Rover, GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OH MY GOD I'M FUCKING DYING I NEED A FUCKING CIGARETTE I NEED A HIT I NEED A BLOW I NEED TO SINK MY TEETH INTO SOMETHING REAL

because it was all upside down. He saw his target slip through the spaces between the boarded-up door of a dilapidated townhouse. It was a lucky find, to be sure-- a lucky find that it was there at all-- most places were boarded up with a layers and layers of heavy plywood-- no gaps to slip through whatsoever-- and if They passed by and saw the barriers broken, well, that was no fun for anyone. If there was anything Wolf knew, it was that broken barriers were the king of all “oh shit” moments-- now he could get AIDS, now she could get pregnant, now nobody could help anybody and the werewolf venom was working its wretched magic and here, look, the world is ending. If there was anything he hated, it was Ronald Reagan. He'd made a shit president, but that was a long fucking time ago-- Wolf couldn't even remember it-- what he did remember, though, was that March 1981 had turned everything the fuck around. Things were backwards after that. Or maybe it was later. Earlier?

Point is, when you're meant to fucking kill somebody, you do it.  
Point is, when you're meant to fucking kill somebody dead, you do it, no matter how many times Jodie Foster said that it wasn't what she wanted and refused to talk about it and refused to talk about it until she blipped out of existence Benjamin-Button-style.

How can you miss with all six of your point-blank shots?  
Some people say it's providence.  
Wolf says that obviously he was a crap shot-- read that carefully. NOT CRACK. CRAP. He was not good. He was the opposite of good. He sucked. Really bad.  
Wolf was better with his teeth.

He slipped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth-- he'd circled the block with the townhouse thrice now-- and it was time to move on in. His quarry was probably nice and high by now-- because when you get to a relatively safe juncture, that's when you can bring out the big guns. That's when you can relax and shoot up-- lie back on a filthy mattress and not even care, not even be bothered, not even wonder to think about all these awkward stains. It didn't matter if the nineties never really happened-- it didn't matter if glow in the dark and smiley-faces never got a chance. It was sad, sure, but it was fine. It was all fine. Could see them now in the cloud of euphoria floating wafting down the stairs. He breathed it in and his eyes were alight. They were on fire.

Wolf stripped off his clothes as he moved up the creaky wooden floorboards.They made noises that reminded him of his grandma's house-- which was funny because Wolf never remembered having a grandma. The sinks in her house had rust and lead endlessly coming out of the pipes-- especially the upstairs sink where he had to brush his teeth and wash his hair when he stayed there. She had been a good sort-- genuinely. He didn't know how she did it-- besides by maybe not existing. That's the only way, and even then it's not surefire.

It was ungodly the way his body glistened, strong and hard in a way that was only possible when you didn't quite exist. The look that Wolf's target gave him when their eyes met was hazy, endothermic but smouldering. Liquid nitrogen. Neither of them were sure who was the one who sighed in relief. His target, high as a motherfucking kite, lay sprawled backward on this dirty heaving sweating mattress, and he was springy and soft in all the wrong places-- jabbing uncomfortably when he went to lie down. You could use him to make some pretty decent ice-cream.

The way Wolf sunk down onto the body made him feel alive. He rocked against it, and when he sank his teeth into the juncture between neck and shoulder, his mouth filled with foam. He tore at it. He tore at it until all that was left was a mass of cotton-candy fluff in an obnoxious red jacket with a blazing star-pattern spewed across it. He picked stray horse-hair from his teeth and yawned boldly, fangs dripping pink frothy foam. A shark attack washed up boiling on an ivory beach-- they killed all the elephants to make it. Wolf began to retch, pink foam spilling from his mouth onto the unstable floorboards. They didn't seem to enjoy it very much. He snuffled and wiped his maw with the back of his hand, flicking off the remains of the carnage and the straw-man argument that because the quarry was strewn across the floor, that it was all dead and over and that he'd won. He'd won for sure this time. Because the kid was dead, the assassination had worked. Time could progress as usual. As intended. "The NRA supports the right to bear arms, so they support private ownership of new-clear weapons." – He couldn't remember who said it, but it seemed to make sense.  
It's easier to bring a gun into a place when it's hard to recognize, harder to separate from the environment-- though they were always that way, weren't they? It's just so much easier. It's easier when you can just inject the venom and watch them writhe. It's even easier when you can do it from a distance. It's easier to see the whole puzzle. The whole puzzle. When you turn around it's a paradox, or like eternally zooming out on the Hoff wearing a speedo of the Hoff wearing a speedo. Or was it zooming in? The point is, there was no full picture to take in, which as an idea of the frame around the whole picture, was pretty fuckin funny.

He laughed and when he laughed he turned inside out. He thought of a cartoon short that used to be all over the tv when he was a boy. Nobody wanted to play with the boy because he was scary and he was inside-out boy. All the pulsing bloody guts places where people didn't want to see them. He slid his hand to something else pulsing rushing blood

and the boy in the bright red hoodie with the obnoxious star pattern woke up alone in an abandoned, empty house, on a discarded old mattress. He sighed to himself at the quick comedown, and absentmindedly grazed the track marks lining the inside of his forearm, turning to stare at the window. Night had fallen and he had no clue which day it was. A wolf bayed not too far off and the boy felt suddenly conflicted, as though he was being hunted-- or rather, he was two boys and one of them was being hunted, while the other howled desperately at the noxious moon.


End file.
